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Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Thrame of Gonads

Now that I’ve finally managed to clean the stubborn orange flakes from the inside of the Christmas, Buck’s Fizz glasses it’s time to reflect on… I don’t know… how I waste too much bloody time watching television.

Lord Scotto of House Poinker and I have been watching the entire series of Game of Thrones for the second time. We’ve slipped into a kind of television psychosis where we’ve begun to speak in medieval tongues and refer to each other as my Lord and my Lady.

“What shalt we do today, my Lord?” I asked him whilst watching my faithful Direwolf, gnawing a rabbit carcass on the flagstones.

Faithful Direwolf

“Might we journey to the inn for a chicken and ale, my lady?” Lord Scotto replied. “There’s naught else to do.”

“The inn is so terribly boring while life is full of possibilities,” I answered, gazing over his armoured shoulder at the mound of dishes in the sink. “Besides, I have imbibed in a good many ales these past few days.”

“If you look back you are lost,” he grasped my pale cheek and turned it away from the filthy quagmire in the scullery.

Then he rose and sauntered to the cold box, whistling a tune. Quick as a snake he swallowed a sweetmeat from its interior.

A hot wind was blowing from the north, and it made the palm trees rustle like living things.

“Rain is coming,” Lord Scotto whispered.

“You know nothing, my Lord,” I retorted. “The Lord of Light on Channel Seven has predicted no rain. We live in dark times, times of drought.”

“When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east," I continued sadly. "When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves we will need to go out and water the lawn. We have no time for the inn… for I am the watcher of the lawn. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the grass. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that makes the lawn verdant and glorious.”

“But… everything's better with some wine in the belly,” Lord Scotto laughed, taking a bite of his cheese.

I sighed, my sigh as soft as sin. “Choosing... it has always hurt. And always will. I know. Lawn or inn? Inn or lawn?” I struggled in my thoughts, torn apart at the idea of a parched garden in the morn.

But the master of cajoling manipulated my yearnings with his silver tongue.

We rode to the inn on the Veloster steed and I was hungrier than I would have believed. We finished two whole chickens and part of a third, and drank a flagon of wine, talking, laughing.

The wine went to my head, I fear. The next thing I knew, I was sharing his bed. Afterwards I was shy and wept, but he kissed me and sang me a little song about a spider climbing a water pipe and being washed away by the rain and when at last he opened the blinds, the puddles of rain were glistening in the pale morning light.

I had never loved him so much as I did in that instant. The drought had broken.